


Winter Reds

by saey-bae (JourneysBeginning)



Series: Mysme Oneshots [2]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Cutesy, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, GIVE ME SOFT!SAERAN OR GIVE ME DEATH, Minor Angst, One Shot, Reader-Insert, i promise it isn't that angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 12:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JourneysBeginning/pseuds/saey-bae
Summary: A one-shot cross-posted from my Tumblr, saey-bae.***He learned that she had recently moved into the sleepy city, settling away from the rat race she once thrived in. He learned that she was living in the condominium two streets down from his own tiny bungalow, and that they’d have time to meet up. He learned that she liked strolls and knitting and winter. Winter was her favourite season.And he couldn’t figure out why.***





	Winter Reds

**Author's Note:**

> Love Letter to Winter II.

Saeran doesn’t quite know when his life sifted between the fingers of fate and landed in her cupped hands. He recalls scrabbling for the narrow precipice of reason he had slipped from and he remembers the bitter taste of fear as he stumbled through uncharted territory. He also knows when he had haphazardly made it into her arms– ones that had waited patiently for him.

She had greeted him with a smile that remains etched in the back of his mind, with a touch so warm it reached beyond physical means. If he were to draw her into his mind, he’d feel the warmth of her presence wrap around his heart, a well-worn blanket, and the memory like a well-loved book- words faded, pages missing, but the story remaining. It still makes him wonder why he had ever danced around the line of commitment.

_Friends? Lovers?_

He should have known the answer sooner, but he didn’t. She waited until he did.

And he shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d known she was patient in the way her hands moved, in the way her hips swayed, in the way words fell from her lips as if she were singing a lullaby. She moved with time, never bargaining for more, like the ocean kissing the shore before retreating at its leisure.

Somehow, he’d known that the moment he laid eyes on her.

He had met her when the snow had begun falling, when the vivid skies of fall clouded over and another long, lonely season settled in. There was no escape from the dry winter air– no layers of clothing, no thick insulation, no supply of heat could stop the chill from seeping into his achy bones. But he still turned his collar against the cold as he waited for the light to turn, and that was when he caught sight of the woman standing across the street, waiting for the same light.

Her wool coat was the colour of poppies, vibrant against the stretches of heavy grey clouds painted across the sky. A colour so warm that the eerie stillness hanging in the frosty air yielded to crimson symphonies.   

Her eyes met his and she smiled. He smiled back.

He learned that she had recently moved into the sleepy city, settling away from the rat race she once thrived in. He learned that she was living in the condominium two streets down from his own tiny bungalow, and that they’d have time to meet up. He learned that she liked strolls and knitting and winter. Winter was her favourite season.

And he couldn’t figure out why.

“The clean smell,” she’d say, and he’d take a deep breath, as if a conscious intake of the cold breeze would give him a better understanding of her words, though it would only disappoint him when no immediate revelation came.

“It smells like any other air…”

“Cleaner,” she had insisted, and he didn’t press further.

(What did the “clean smell” even _mean_?)

“The morning light,” she’d say one morning, as the two of them strolled along a poorly shovelled sidewalk leading to a small coffee shop he had introduced her to. He’d lift a hand to shield his eyes as he looked up to the dim, clouded over sky in confusion.

“It’s still dark out,” he’d mumble back, eyes narrowing at the way the dull clouds brewed grouchily, heavy with precipitation. “And it looks like it’s going to snow again.”

“Maybe. But snow is so beautiful!”

And he’d glance at the dirty snow lining the streets –more slush than snow, really– before shaking his head, shrugging his shoulders noncommittally. If that’s what made her happy, he had no arguments.

(It was a strange attitude to take on her end, though, especially considering the fact that she had gotten mild frostbite the next day.)    

“The winter apparel,” she’d say, a little over two months later, as she tossed a black sweater and a hand-knit magenta scarf at his face. He’d reach up to feel at the plush cloth around his face before peeling it off, blushing when he realized it was one of her many gifts to him leading up to Christmas.

“You didn’t have to make anything for me.”

“Now, now, don’t complain! Go try it on for me.” She would weasel her way past him and into his house as she had done so many times before, beaming as if she were on the receiving end of the gift. “By the way, I want to go pick out a tree for my place– care to come along?”

He’d sigh, raising a brow. She’d smiled that warm smile of hers, one that he would come to grow rather fond of.

“Alright, fine.”

(He would have done so without any prompting, anyway.)

“The hot chocolate,” she’d say, handing him a mug before taking a spot next to him near the fireplace. He’d have a thick blanket around his shoulders and she wouldn’t hesitate to cosy up to him, though he’d eye her a little funny as he sipped at his drink.

And he’d reluctantly agree with her – that hot chocolate was worth suffering for, that he’d go through an entire year of winter if only she’d lean against him as they sipped at their drinks– after he had burned his tongue on the saccharine drink one too many times.

(But only _her_ hot chocolate was worth suffering through winter for.)

“The beauty,” she’d say, gesturing to the glossy coat of ice clinging to bare trees –a result of the rain from the night before– and he had to admit to himself that braving the wind that nipped his cheeks ruddy was a worthwhile sacrifice to be able to view a forest of glazed trees with her.

The tender revelation had him pausing, then smiling at the back of her head. When she turned back to glance at him, the smile dropped.

“I saw that!” she’d exclaim, a puff of warm air escaping her lips.

“Saw what?” The pitch of his voice had fallen into a low, flat grumble.

“You know,” she’d reply with a vague smirk. She would turned back to the trees, even as her sneaky hands slipped out of their pockets, warm fingers tangling with his freezing ones.

He’d smile. And, as he observed how the wintry skies painted her in a beautiful figure, he would belatedly realize he was in love, even if he didn’t know how to express it. Perhaps being unable to express is was what scared him the most.

(He didn’t want to ruin anything. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone, he promised.)

So he spent the next winter alone. He felt the chill in his bones, in his heart this time. The eerie stillness lingered in the spaces she once occupied, filling the gaps with frosty silence he’s never known.

He froze that winter and, unbeknownst to him, so did she.

_Merry Christmas. Want to go for a stroll?_

And she said, _Yes, please._    

He had never known such a happiness.

Many winters later, she’d claim her spot next to him as they sat near the fireplace, curled up beneath the same quilt. Hot chocolate mugs were nearby, waiting to be sipped from.

“I’ve made a mistake,” she’d say. His arm would came around to pull her closer and she’d smile. “The best part of winter is this.” 

And he’d say, “This?”

“The cuddles.” Her sticky lips pecked his cheek, so he planted one on her in retaliation. She laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Spending time with you.”

Somewhere along the way, along the years, he realized she loved winter because warmth emanated from within her and she shared it freely. Winter couldn’t freeze her. He smiled back in a fashion that, he hoped, was equally as warm. “Winters with you are the best.”

And he’d whisper, even softer, once she had nodded off, “Thank you for waiting for me.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Winter, you're gorgeous, but I miss the sun. And I've got seasonal depression.


End file.
